


Vampire Flower Language

by AngelaCastir



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Getting Together, Historical Fantasy, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Original Slash, Original Universe, Slash, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, War, World War II, rational
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelaCastir/pseuds/AngelaCastir
Summary: In 1944, American deserter named Red falls for a powerful vampire named William - and the feelings seem to be mutual.However, Red soon finds that vampires have a complex society with inscrutable rules that must be followed - or else.Will they be able to make it work, with their relationship at the fringes of both vampire and human society? Or will Red be caught up in the wrong part of William's many rivalries?





	1. Purple Lilac

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vampire opera inspires William to indulge his interest in his hotel's night-porter.

"[Purple and White Lilac Cluster](https://www.flickr.com/photos/ekilby/6984549878/)" ([CC BY-SA 2.0](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/)) by [Eric Kilby](https://www.flickr.com/people/ekilby/) 

#  **Purple Lilac**

_ Rome, Lazio, Italy _

_ May 1944 _

Operas were dangerous as it was. Nothing less was to be expected, with a hundred powerful vampires gathered so close together for two long weeks. And during this opera, less than a hundred miles away, two human armies fought one another in a war that had begun four and a half years ago.

But the vampires paid it little mind; William had lived through countless wars himself. He had fought in several, even had occasion to command armies. The human war was not of interest to him; the opera was a rare treat. 

There was no talk of cancelling it. No thought was paid to deferring to petty human squabbles. The opera itself had been planned for decades, and the city of Rome was a perfectly safe place to be, even though war was raging in Anzio some fifty kilometres to the south.

William had chosen to attend the opera not just because he was a great admirer of the librettist, but because it afforded him an opportunity to meet with other popular members of high society. He had been isolated in Australia for some eighty years, and he wanted to reacquaint himself with the Europeans with whom he had close ties. No doubt they would be clamoring to meet with him; he held a kingdom that was known to vampires as  _ New Holland _ . Consisting of approximately forty percent of Australia’s western land mass, it was among the largest held by anybody. Admittedly, its population was far smaller than some cities that were controlled by lesser vampires elsewhere; but he had always been fond of having control over large swathes of land, and there was more than enough food for him there. 

He had checked into his hotel the night before the opera began. Such operas were so intricately plotted that many of their stories could not be told in anything less than fifty hours - and this one had been scheduled for seventy-five. The night porter had picked up his luggage - three more-or-less ordinary suitcases and six heavy wooden trunks that were anything but ordinary - and carried them, item by item, into one of the specially-prepared rooms that the hotel kept for the patrons that requested them. There was something about the night porter that intrigued William. The way he kept running his gloved hands through his thick black hair, hesitating before he spoke. William could sense an odd, generalised fear in him. He was disappointed that the hotel still discouraged feeding on its staff; he would have loved to become better acquainted. 

Were it not for the opera, William may not have thought any more of the night porter. However, like all of his kind, William was a slave to fashion.

Halfway through the opera’s fifteen-day duration, William knew that it would be remembered for the ages. Its legendary librettist and composer had laid the groundwork for a beautiful tale, with hundreds of disparate elements coming together. The thread that William found himself drawn to was the story of a young vampire, some hundred years of age, who was pursuing the love of a human princess. Romances between vampires and humans were by no means unheard of, but it was a shameful secret of those that participated in it. It was the low-status sort of thing done by a young one who missed his old life, or - worse still - did not care for his reputation. No reputable vampire, especially one of such advanced age as William, would ever debase themself so. 

It was revolutionary that such a relationship be included in an opera at all, let alone be a major element of one so prestigious. He eagerly participated in the discussion. The opinions varied. Some thought it was only sensible for a young vampire to bring himself into a powerful human political position and that the princess would be a pawn and discarded; others thought it was scandalous that such a relationship should be shown at all, and predicted it would end in tragedy. 

William was a member of the cohort of the oldest vampires still living. In his time he had seen a great many of these performances, and had watched a great many trends in vampire society be born and die. The people in the audience speculating about the significance of the relationship with the princess seemed more excited than scandalised by it. And Vettori, the librettist, had a reputation as a trendsetter: an opera of hers had made the use of personal body doubles widespread amongst respectable vampires. Then, two hundred years later, a second opera had brought the practice into disrepute - a sign of earlier, less unified times. He thought back to his doppelganger, still hidden in a coffin in the basement of an Australian church. He had been caught up in it then, too.

William was coming to suspect that having a human lover would soon be in vogue. He had heard a human lover required a horrific combination of constant attention and patience: keeping one could well become a new display of extravagance. And vampires, who as a rule could afford most creature comforts, loved nothing more than austentatious gestures of luxury.

As he made the short walk back to his hotel, he imagined a rival Queen’s jealous glare if he visited her ten years from now with a human woman on his arm, fawning over him. He imagined how her Dukes and Duchesses would gossip amongst themselves, wondering what could be taking so much of their Queen’s time that she could not afford to win a human’s affections. He thought of how impressive his will, intelligence, and social integration skills would seem by comparison. He smiled as he crossed the threshold into the  _ Albergo di Sole al Pantheon _ , thinking that the hypothetical Dukes and Duchesses might cede their allegiances to him, all over a human woman. He wondered if he might try to charm one. 

In those early morning hours, the hotel front desk was staffed by the same night porter that had moved his luggage. Each time, the porter gave William a polite greeting in his heavily accented Italian. He had never thought it worth any acknowledgement. 

But tonight, with his thoughts where they were, William couldn’t help but take note of the precise angle at which the night porter was wearing his hat this evening; the place he had rolled his sleeves up to, and the number of times he had folded each sleeve to do it. To a vampire, such aspects of attire were carefully composed, and each button, each fold, and each accessory added meaning to the outfit. If the porter had been a vampire, he would be signalling to a superior that he wished to discuss an allegiance. It was unambiguous. It was absurd; he had never heard of a human stumbling upon a coherent message like that. He wondered what reason another vampire would have to dress him up like this, to tell  _ this  _ message from a human’s point-of-view - and as humans went, this foreigner was as lowly as they came. 

So this time, instead of continuing straight up the stairs, he paused at the desk for a moment and returned the young man’s greeting, meeting his brown eyes with a small smile. 

William found himself hoping that the night porter himself had meant to signal him, rather than being dressed by another vampire like a doll. As he walked up the stairs to his room, William shook his head. Fashionable or not, it was a silly idea.

 

The next evening, after the opera, William approached the desk with purpose, despite himself.

“Good evening, sir.” came the porter’s usual greeting in heavily accented Italian. He seemed young; William guessed the short, clean-shaven man was about twenty. There was still that faint anxiety about him, which made him seem older. William wondered if it was just his presence or if he was like this with everyone.

“I would like to receive the daily newspaper.” William said, his Italian spoken slowly and clearly for the porter’s benefit.

“Yes, sir.” He grabbed a piece of paper from the table and began reading from it in his broken, laboured Italian. “Do you prefer the  _ Corriere della Sera _ or…” He paused, concentrating, his tongue feeling out the words before he said them. “ _ Il Messaggero _ ?”

“I will have the  _ Corriere della Sera. _ ”

“Yes, sir _. _ ” He started writing something down in the hotel’s ledger.

“Where are you from?” William couldn’t help it. There was something odd about this man, and he wanted to find out what.

“Columbus, United States, sir.”

“Would you prefer that we speak English?” He switched to English, his speech fluid, but with an accent the porter couldn’t identify.

“Th-that would be very kind of you, sir. But no need to speak it on my account, sir.” He tripped up a little, the English syllables feeling rusty and strange after not speaking them in what felt like weeks. 

“I’m Australian, so I would quite prefer it.”

“Ah. I thought I didn't know your accent. Sir.” He added hastily, remembering his choice of words. Learning Italian had forced him to overthink everything he said, so the English came out roughly. “There will be a newspaper left out the front of your room in a few hours." He forced a smile, making eye contact for just a moment. 

As William considered his next course of action, he reached into his pocket with his gloved hand, fished out his coin purse and handed a few coins to the porter. Tipping was a rare custom, but it was not unheard of; and while the amount William gave the porter was generous, it was by no means extravagant. It was enough to buy the porter a modest lunch.

The porter looked at the money, almost confused. He hadn’t been tipped once since he had gotten to Italy. “Thank you, sir.” 

William gave him a nod and started up to the stairs, wondering what it was about the porter that had possessed him to behave in such an impulsive manner. Like the rest of his kind, he only touched money - even money he knew was safe - when it was unavoidable. There were small dangers with doing otherwise, and over centuries, the smallest risks needed to be avoided. And yet he had given the night porter a tip. He shook his head, placing his hands in his pockets. It was that opera: not even over, and it was already putting ideas into his head. 

Red smiled to himself as he pocketed the coins. After three months in Italy, three months of his new life, he was finally beginning to feel useful, appreciated. He was doing his best to be worthy of the job he had been so lucky to get. Even if it was mostly carrying luggage and arranging newspapers and taxis for people who needed them in the early hours of the morning, it was nice to be appreciated. It was nice to have something to do.

He felt uneasy about speaking to the Australian man in English. Although it had been months, he was still scared of anything that could draw attention - anything that could slip if he got too comfortable. How many Americans would be here, now, with the war going on so close by? 

He habitually ran his right hand through his shaggy black hair. After being neglected all this time, his regulation hairstyle was almost unidentifiable. He wondered if he should get a haircut: perhaps an Italian barber’s expert hand might make him look less American. 

For the next few evenings, when Red sat at the front desk, the Australian man greeted him politely in English whenever he passed by. Red found himself liking the attention, being acknowledged after feeling invisible for so long. Even though the invisibility was a necessity, he was lonely.

Then the Australian broke his routine: instead of arriving shortly before sunrise, he arrived not long after midnight, and approached the desk after the usual exchange of greetings. He stood about six feet tall, his posture impeccable, making Red think of a boy back home who had attended a prep school out of state. His curly blonde hair, sprinkled with grey, was cropped short. He looked to be about thirty, maybe thirty-five. 

Red found himself less nervous than he had been the night he had ordered the newspaper. Perhaps it was because he knew there was no risk of him having to stumble through a conversation in Italian; or perhaps it was the slight rapport they had built.

“Are you able to assist me with something during your off hours?” The Australian asked.

“That should be no problem, sir.” Red replied. He had heard it was quite common for guests to request errands - deliveries, shopping trips, that sort of thing. Many of his colleagues had told him that they were often more lucrative than a full day’s wage; and he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially given his circumstances. 

“Are you able to be at my room at eight o’clock tomorrow evening?”

Red nodded. He could easily find someone to trade shifts with. “Of course, sir.” 

“Excellent.” The man paused, and held out his hand for Red to shake. “My name is Ryan. William Ryan.”

“Carlo Rossi.” Red lied, shaking the man’s hand. You couldn’t be too careful.

The next afternoon, as Red made the long yet familiar walk to the  _ Albergo del Sole al Pantheon _ , he paid special attention to the sights that surrounded him. This city was  _ old  _ \- far older than his native Columbus. He reflected, not for the first time, how strange and fortunate he was in all this; that despite the magnitude of his sin, he could make a living in one of the world’s greatest cities. And now one of the patrons had expressed an interest in giving him additional work in his time off. Red hoped it was the start of a long-term arrangement: he didn’t know when he might be discovered, might have to run again. He needed to save as much money as he could.

When he reached the hotel, he took a moment to appreciate his surroundings: he was in an ordinary piazza that contained the Pantheon, an ancient temple with a Grecian pointed roof and thick columns, and a grand fountain with an obelisk coming out of the top of it. He often reflected on the wonders of the city - wonders he knew he had not yet seen the tiniest fraction of. He was grateful that Hitler’s armies would not defend Rome, lest the ancient buildings be destroyed in battle*. If the Americans reached it, the German army would withdraw, offer no resistance, and allow them to take full possession of it. He was glad, not just that he was unlikely to see battle if he stayed here, but that even Hitler himself agreed that the piazza and the ancient building it contained were too beautiful to risk their destruction. It was a strange thing to have in common with the leader of the armies that wanted him dead.

The hotel itself was small: an unassuming, earthy orange building opposite the Pantheon. When he had started working there, they had told him that it, too, was hundreds of years old. He entered the small lobby. The building was lit with soft light, the smell of roses in the air. Behind the front desk sat Adelina, the concierge: a young woman with long, brown hair swept back into a ponytail. He gave her a nod and a small wave. She knew he was working on a special project for a guest.

Red climbed the stairs and approached William’s room. He hesitated at the door for a moment, nervous for a reason he couldn’t quite place. He gathered his courage and knocked, and a few moments later, William opened the door. He was not dressed in a suit this evening; he instead wore navy blue pants with suspenders, and a perfectly pressed white shirt that was just a little bit tighter than it should have been. He wore simple black shoes and thin white gloves.

“Good evening, Mister Rossi. Please, come in.”

Red sharply moved his gaze to William’s deep blue eyes.

“Yes, of course, sir.”

William shook his head as he closed the door behind them. “Please, call me William.”

Red smiled, sitting in the chair to which William gestured. “Of course, sir.” He noticed a thick, black curtain over the far wall where the window must have been. Many rooms had them; some guests were sensitive to being woken up early by the sunrise and specially requested them. He didn’t understand it himself; before he started working nights, he had always woken up with the sun.

The room was appointed with deep red wallpaper, and fine wooden furniture: a four-poster bed, a dressing table, a wardrobe, a wooden chair at a writing desk, and the upholstered chairs they were sitting in with a small coffee table. There were neat piles of paper and pots of ink on the desk, along with a lidless wooden box containing sticks of coloured wax. Finally, the far corner contained half a dozen heavy wooden trunks that Red had neatly stacked into two piles two weeks earlier when William had checked in.

“Can I provide you with anything? Water? Coffee?”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.”

“You need not call me ‘sir’, Mister Rossi.” William paused for a moment. “I was planning on getting coffee for myself. It will be no trouble.”

“Oh, in that case, coffee would be nice, s-” He stopped himself. “William.” Calling a hotel guest, let alone one that was giving him extra employment, by his first name felt out of the ordinary; but he was already coming to suspect that this was not an ordinary man. The excessive tip, his origin in a faraway country, and now his apparent disdain for formality, despite seeming to be old money... Red wondered what other strange habits he might have.

William picked up the phone and spoke in fine Italian. The blonde, blue-eyed man didn’t look Italian by any means, but he spoke it fluidly. Red wondered how an Australian could be so proficient; no doubt he’d had an expensive education.

“Now, I am sure you wish to know what I require of you.” William said kindly, sitting in the chair opposite Red.

Red nodded.

“As you can see, I have several large trunks.” He gestured behind himself. “When I first arrived, they were stacked in two piles. Unfortunately, this is not the most practical arrangement if I want to use the things inside. I believe this room is sufficiently large to allow for all six trunks to be accessible, though it may require relocating some of the other furniture. I will also require you to purchase a seventh trunk, so that I may reorganise them.”

Red nodded. He had been expecting something along those lines, but was relieved all the same to hear it was a manageable task: manual labour was something he could do. The shopping trip would be harder, but he’d figure it out. “I can move the furniture right now. I can start looking for a new trunk tomorrow, if that’s alright by you?”

“There is no rush, though you are welcome to work through the night if that suits you.”

“Oh. Well, in that case, I might make a start on it now, and maybe come back tomorrow after lunch and finish up.”

William shook his head. “You may only be here after eight o’clock.” 

Red nodded again. He had gotten used to Europeans - particularly Europeans rich enough to stay in nice hotels during the war. Working only nights barely even registered as odd at this point. “Sure, I can do that.”               

There was a knock at the door. William answered it and was handed a tray with two steaming cups of black coffee. Their heady smell quickly filled the air. William placed the tray on the coffee table. He picked up his cup, cupping it in his hands, smelled it, and blew at the steam. Red smiled, took his, and sipped it. It was heavy and thick, with an earthy taste to it. It was very different to the thin, watery brews he had become accustomed to since the war began.

“Thank you, sir.” Red murmured. 

“You are doing me a service. It is only fair that I provide you with some small comforts.” 

Red nodded, trying to hide his surprise at being treated this way by an employer. There was a brief pause as he tried to work out where he should direct his attention. He looked at William, but was worried about staring. After glancing around the room again, he settled on staring at his drink. 

William broke the silence. “What is Columbus like?” He asked, placing his drink back on the table. Red shrugged, taking another sip of the first good cup of coffee he had had in months.

“It’s nice. Very different from Rome.”

“Did you live there all of your life?”

He nodded. “Never lived anywhere else, until I came here. My mother moved there when she was very young.” Red paused to take another sip of the coffee. “What about you, if you don’t mind me asking? Have you always been in Australia, sir?”

“I was born there, though my parents were Irish.” He said, the lie practised.  He picked his cup back up, and blew at the now diminished steam. “What brought you here?”

Red hesitated. He didn’t have a good explanation at hand. He had told others that he had been travelling, looking for his grandparents, and had become stuck when the war began. He had a feeling William wouldn’t believe him. William seemed to notice his hesitation, and gave him a kind smile.

“No need to answer. We all have secrets.”

Red nodded, relieved. “Thank you, sir.”

“Is there anything else you wish to know about me, or the work you are to do?”

He thought about it for a moment. Was there anything? Really? “No. Thank you, sir.”

“Excellent. Well, then, I suppose it is time we agreed on a price.”

“Well, I haven’t haggled for work before.” Red sat back in his chair, just in time to conceal the jerk of stiffening shoulders. He realised he couldn’t have been more obvious if he tried. He leaned forward to put his coffee cup down, suddenly self-conscious and fidgety.

William leaned forward, too. “I am not here to take advantage of you, Mister Rossi. Do you have a figure in mind?” He said with a small chuckle. He held his hand out to brush against the back of Red’s for just a moment in a comforting gesture. 

Red hesitated again. Italians were very affectionate. Maybe Australians were, too. He didn’t want to draw attention to how odd it was to him, and especially not to the fact it had sent goosebumps up his forearm. He glanced up to meet William’s eyes, but immediately grew self-conscious and looked back to where his cup sat on the table. Red could feel his cheeks grow warm. He wondered what was coming over him.

“Er... The hotel is paying me one hundred and fifty lire each week, so...would three lire an hour be acceptable to you?”

“That will be fine.” William said immediately. “How long do you suppose it will take?” 

“At least an hour, maybe two for the moving.” He shrugged. “I’ll have it done as soon as possible, sir.” 

“I’m glad to hear that.” He smiled. “Thank you for your help.”

“Thank you for hiring me, sir.” He drank the last dregs of his coffee. “I can start right now, if that works for you.”

“That would be excellent. I have an appointment I must see to, and I expect to be gone for a while. If I have not returned when you are finished, please lock the door behind you.”

“I will, sir.” 

Once left to his own devices, Red moved the writing desk, wardrobe, chairs, and coffee table to one end of the room. It made everything look far more crowded, but it meant that there was room for the existing trunks to be laid out, side-by-side, against the far wall, with room to spare for the seventh one that William had asked for. All in all, this took him only ninety minutes. When William had not returned half an hour after that, Red headed home. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

On some level though, he felt a little disappointed. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Rome was declared an  [ _ open city _ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Open_city) in 1943.


	2. Interlude

William folded a striped towel. _«May I request information about one of your slaves?»_ Asked the angles of the creases.

Cassius sprinkled water onto it with his left hand. _«What sort of information are you after?»_ Replied the arrangement of the droplets.

 _«I want one of them to serve me.»_ William replied by adjusting his tie, his left hand in front as his right tightened the knot. It was the left hand that indicated service and the right hand that spoke of personal service to him. Had he then gestured outward, the act would have suggested, instead, service to Cassius.  
  
He trusted Cassius to fill in the gaps: had this been about a fellow vampire, his approach would have been entirely different, so there was a mortal whose services he wished to obtain. 

Cassius laughed. “You mean you wish to have one of them served _to_ you.” He couldn’t resist making a pun. He knew William was one of many who did not keep human servants for longer than a year or two. He lacked the patience and self-control.

William narrowed his eyes slightly. Cassius had something he wanted, so he had to accept some poor decorum. But William’s manners were beyond reproach. He grabbed a rose from the table, and expertly pulled out its petals, one at a time, deciding to be direct. _«It is your hotel. Is the American one of yours?»_ He arranged the petals on the table into a kolam of sorts.

“Do you not think I can control myself, that you refuse to speak to me, your majesty?”

“I think you are being rude. I am asking a simple question, your majesty.”

“I know about whom you speak. I found him interesting, too. That’s why he works at my hotel.”

“He is one of yours?”

“I considered it. But I have too many. Do you want him?”

“Yes.”

Cassius laughed. “It’s a pity. You’ll ruin him when you get hungry or bored.”

William frowned, and picked up the rose petals. _«I won’t ruin him. I can control myself.»_

He laughed again, and retrieved the towel. _«I don’t believe you. You are aware of your reputation.»_ The way he picked it up spelled out the retort. Left hand, picked up from the centre. He elaborated with some careful folds.

“I will have him, with your blessing, your majesty.”

Cassius grinned. “Now who is being rude, your majesty?” But William knew that meant the American was his.

“Will you tell me where he came from?”

“I expect this favour to be repaid.”

“Naturally, your majesty.”


	3. Coriander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red goes on some bizarre errands for his eccentric new employer.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/75380256@N06/6774826490/)  
"[Coriander](https://www.flickr.com/photos/75380256@N06/6774826490/)" ([CC BY 2.0](https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/)) by [jayeshpatil912](https://www.flickr.com/people/75380256@N06/)

#  **Coriander**

When Red arrived at the hotel the following evening, half an hour earlier than he was supposed to, William was already in the lobby, legs crossed, reading the newspaper. A full cup of black coffee sat on the table before him, the steam long since gone.

“Mister Ryan?”

“Mister Rossi. You did a fine job last night.”

Red bowed his head for a half a second before thinking better of it. There was something about William that made him feel like he  _ needed  _ to bow. Even though he had never bowed to anyone in his life, short of playing pretend as a child. “Thank you, sir. I just need to buy you the new trunk. But there should be enough room for it.”

There was a soft rustling as William neatly folded the newspaper. “Can you do it tomorrow, and bring it here at eight o’clock?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.” He hesitated. “Sir.” He added, still not feeling right speaking so casually to a guest. 

“Excellent. I will give you the money.” William placed the folded newspaper beside the coffee and got to his feet.

Red noticed William never straightened his clothes when he moved. He had never noticed that most people did, until he noticed someone who didn’t. “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

William started towards the room, and Red fell into step beside him. “Please, don’t address me so formally.”

“Sorry.” Red murmured. Although William seemed completely at ease, Red wasn’t.

“Do you know where you will purchase the trunk?” William asked as they reached his room. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked  the door.

“The day is my own tomorrow, so I’ll have time to look. Any trunk will do, right—as long as it’s big enough?” As he followed William into his room, Red caught himself fidgeting, picking at the edges of his nails, and hastily stuffed his hands into his pockets. Perhaps he shouldn’t have made promises about finding such a specific thing in a city that he still didn’t know all that well. 

William approached one of the trunks and pulled another, smaller key out of his pocket with his gloved hand. “Yes, most any will do. Though there is a particular district that I would prefer you buy it from.” 

William unlocked the trunk, pulling the heavy lid open with ease. The faintly sweet odor of cedar came from inside. Red couldn’t help but take a few steps forward: he had not seen inside one before, and he was curious what this man had thought important enough to take halfway around the world. The trunk held an odd assortment of wooden items, ranging from simple kitchen tools, to ornamental carvings, and jewellery. It seemed as though more items were stuffed into the trunk than would allow it to close, but he figured that was just a trick of the eye. Maybe the style just made it look smaller than it was. 

At the nearest end of the trunk, there was a medium-sized box, about one foot square, secured with a big brass lock patterned with branches with spoon shaped leaves. William picked up the small box and set it on the table, fishing a second key out of his pocket. He unlocked it and opened it: inside there were neatly stacked bundles of notes—a combination of the Allied-issued banknotes and the newer Biglietti di Stato. 

“Take one of these. You can use it to buy the trunk.” He held the box out to Red.

Red carefully approached and grabbed one of the bundles from the box. It felt slick and strange; no creases. William closed and locked the box, placed it back into the trunk, and then closed and locked the trunk. Red carefully flicked through the notes, breathing in the smell of the cash as he counted them. Right there, in his hand, was more money than he had earned in his entire time in Italy. 

“Sir?” He felt uncomfortable all of a sudden, like a child holding a bag of sweets he wasn’t supposed to have. “This... this is an awful lot of money.”

“I would like a quite fine trunk if you see one, and I would hate you not to be able to purchase it.” He said, simply. 

Red had trouble wrapping his head around the idea that this man could trust him so easily with so much. But then again, from the contents of the locked box, he might not even miss it if Red ran off. And if he ran off, he might not find more work for a while: no doubt a man with William’s resources could track him down and ruin him, if he wanted to. 

The thought of running left as quickly as it came. No. He liked the job. He liked the promise of stability. And, as odd as he was, he quite liked William, too. He seemed a little eccentric, but pleasant to be around. He spoke English with him and made Red feel like he was being listened to, noticed,  _ seen _ . He felt comfortable. More comfortable than he had in a while.

“Thank you.” Red finally said. He carefully placed the wad of money into his pocket, suddenly aware of how he normally crumpled notes into his pocket without thinking. He would need to buy something to keep his money secure, especially if William planned to send him on more shopping trips in the future. His pockets seemed too open and obvious all of a sudden.

“Now, come. I will show you where to go for the trunk.”

“You don't need to go out of your way, sir.”

“Please call me William.”

“Sorry…” Red hesitated. It still felt odd to call an employer by his first name, especially one who was no doubt used to being waited on. “I’ll be able to find something somewhere.” 

“No, I shall take you. There is no sense in you going somewhere that sells inferior merchandise.”

It was hard to believe that such a place could have existed so near the hotel he worked at, and that he had never happened across it before. There were beggars who hid their faces beneath thick shawls; smells of spices and clouds of thick incense that almost choked him even in the open air; and the sound of discordant music that seemed to float through the windows of every other building. 

People stared at him as he walked, half a step behind William, trying to take it all in. People stopped talking when they got close, some giving awkward bows when William was within a few feet and not looking up until he had passed.

Red was glad it wasn’t just him who had that urge.

He almost couldn’t find it again the next day. When he did finally find the alleyway that led to the strange street he could swear he had passed the two shops sandwiching it — a shop exclusively selling flower vases and another selling jewelry that had spikes on the underside — three times before he spotted the entrance. The archway to the neighbourhood somehow looked darker, more foreboding in the light of day.

The street was much different; there were fewer people about, and no music or incense at all. There was only the sound of people shuffling about, and the smell of the dirt they kicked up in their movements. Perhaps that had been why he had so much trouble finding his way back. Without William, the few people he saw neither stared or bowed. There were a few small glances out of the corners of their eyes, a few whispers behind cupped hands when they thought he wouldn’t see them. It made him feel exposed and awkward, just in an altogether different way than the night before.

He saw a grand concert hall, with large posters on the outside walls that proclaimed the upcoming shows. He did not recognise the names of any of them, but that was not surprising. He was not exactly a patron of theatres, even back home. He stood out the front, taking in the strange names and looking at the dates. Each performance seemed to have only one or two showings, but rather than being on consecutive nights, they were showing weeks apart. He wondered why they were organised like that. It didn’t sound very sensible.

As he gawked at the  the posters (one showed a woman stuffing a man’s mouth with cloth and Red could not figure out what the context of that could possibly  _ be _ ), he heard the shuffling steps of a woman coming up behind him.  She was wearing a heavy red dress that covered her entire body, including her face: the sun’s bright reflection glinted off a pair of black glasses she was wearing underneath. The top of her form was a funny cylindrical shape, as though she was wearing a top hat underneath the thick red fabric. The long-sleeved dress stopped at her knees; her legs were clad in thick black stockings and she wore gloves and heavy shoes. 

“Who are you?” She hissed at him in broken Italian.  “What is your business?”

Red was quite surprised at receiving such an unprovoked, frosty reception — and in worse Italian than his own, no less. “I want to buy a...” Red searched for the word, but was not able to find it in his limited Italian vocabulary. He gestured vaguely, outlining a rectangle with his hands.  “A big box?” He said finally, weakly.

The woman’s manner seemed to soften, though it was hard to be sure with only the most basic outline of her form being visible.  “A-ha! On a job for your master?” 

Red tried not to cringe; his master? Her Italian was definitely worse than his. He had to remind himself he was in no place to judge. “Yes. My boss needs one for… things.” Okay, he  _ really  _ couldn’t judge.

She touched him gently on the shoulder. It felt unpleasant, and made him think of swimming in the lake as a child, of when his foot scraped something unknown on the bottom. She gestured for him to follow her.  “Come to my shop.”

Red followed, wondering about the wisdom of the decision of following strange women in parts of town he didn’t know. He couldn’t even be sure that she had even understood what he was looking for. Moreover, he had never seen someone dressed anything like this woman was. It was beginning to get warm out. She would have to be sweltering under that thing; he could only imagine what it would be like in June. Maybe she didn’t wear it every day. Or maybe it was a religious thing. Maybe she was a nun. Red had never met a nun before. A nun would have to be trustworthy. He relaxed.

Her store was two stalls down, and was far larger inside than the modest door and minimal decoration let on. He stepped inside, and everything smelled of sandalwood; the stall was filled with items in neat rows but scarcely a hair’s width between them. There were old pots with elaborate paintings of scenes he didn’t understand. Hundreds and hundreds of mirrors, from tiny hand mirrors to one that took up most of the side wall: it had to be thirty feet long and ten feet high. It was easily the biggest mirror he had seen in his life. Red wasn’t a tall man to begin with, and this just made him feel even shorter. 

A few grand swords hung on the far wall, clearly never intended for combat with elaborate designs carved into the blades, and handles so covered in jewels they would tear open the hands of anyone who tried to wield them.  And at the back of the store, with one end against that far wall, there were two—no, three—large trunks. Four, if you counted the great stone thing that looked more like a giant granite coffin. The woman led him towards them, and gestured for Red to examine them. 

They seemed normal enough. Two of them were made of dark wood, with the third being slightly lighter in colour. He nudged each in turn with his foot; they seemed sturdy enough. He considered for a moment whether he should buy a wooden trunk at all. He knew steel would be stronger and cheaper; and getting a steel trunk would mean leaving here, which sounded quite appealing at this point. William had not specifically requested that it be made of wood.  Still, his other six were wooden, and this store was in the right part of town. And William seemed the sort who would like things to match, at least in colour scheme. 

The shrouded woman watched Red intently as he ran his hand over the lid of one, feeling the smoothness of the well-varnished wood. “They please you?” She asked.

“Maybe.” Red didn’t know how to begin deciding. Apart from the differences in the carved designs and the colour of the wood, they seemed identical to him. He decided to open them and check the hinges and clasps. Those would be the most likely places for the trunk to fail, he reasoned. 

He went to the leftmost trunk and opened it.  The first thing he noticed was how it was more roomy than he had expected it to be. He felt a small bit of pride for noticing, even though it had been something of a trend lately. 

The interior was bare, basic, with no lining. He pulled at the heavy lid, trying to put some force on the hinges. They held firm. The musty scent of old, unaired wood reached him. 

He walked to the right, to the rightmost trunk, one made of the lighter wood. He nudged the corner with the toe of his boot; although the wood was softer, the trunk less heavy, it was still plenty strong enough to withstand the bumps and jostles that it would be expected to endure in its life. The design on the front was an intricate geometric pattern—mostly squares and triangles, with a few flowers carved amongst them. He paused as a distinct discomfort began to rest in his stomach. He looked to the left, at the middle trunk. The second he allowed himself to focus on it, he immediately felt the urge to move his attention elsewhere. He frowned, forcing himself to look back at it. He focused on the way it made him feel. Once again, the urge to look away began to consume him. 

Despite himself, he shuffled sideways, towards the middle trunk. As he got closer, the skin on his neck began to prickle at some unseen danger. He glanced back at the woman, hidden beneath her robe. Her demeanor did not betray the slightest apprehension; she was probably bored, what with how slow Red was being. He leaned forward; now the hair on his arms began to stand up, and he felt the vague terror, the imprecise apprehension, of watching a scary film or reading a suspenseful book. He grabbed at the catch, which felt colder than the others, and opened the trunk.

The effect was immediate and intense. The apprehension, the dread, it all vanished. He felt… ordinary, as though he was an ordinary customer in an ordinary shop examining an ordinary trunk with an ordinary shopkeeper standing beside him. And, indeed, it looked ordinary on the inside. Much like the first one, it was roomier than he’d expected. It was lined with a smooth, shiny, dark red fabric with pockets stitched into it with gold thread. He knew  _ this _ was the trunk William wanted. He cleared his throat and lowered the lid with a soft thud. On some level he was prepared to have that funny feeling again, to want to get away from the trunk; but when he closed it, it just looked ordinary. The apprehension was gone, replaced with a feeling of slight embarrassment at having been so worried in the first place.

Now he could bear to look at it, it was beautiful. The dark wood was carved with an elaborate series of scenes: on one of the sides, a tower in a rainstorm; a baby floating in a chest, fished out of the water by a man in a small boat. On another side, a man being given a variety of things: a shield from a nude woman, a helmet and a sack from a group of three mermaids, and a sword and pair of winged sandals from a muscular man in a loincloth. The third side had the man walking through a crowd of statues, wearing the items he had been given. With a small pull he could pull it far enough away to see the side flush against the wall, a man throwing a discus. It had felt a little like a let down, given the rest of it.

The top of the chest showed two astonishing scenes each bordered by intricately carved serpents. The first scene was the man cutting the neck of a frightened looking snake-haired woman, holding the shield up in front of him. The other showed a winged horse half-emerging from the neck stump, as the soldier held the serpent-haired head in the air. Red had never seen anything quite like it. He ran his fingers along the intricate carving, feeling the sharp angles, and gave the shopkeeper a small nod.

“I’ll take this one.” 

The shrouded woman moved her head up and down in an exaggerated mirror of his nod. “Very good. Carry it to the front. Do you want me to wrap it in paper?”

Red shook his head. “No. That won’t be necessary.” 

She walked towards the counter at front of the store, making a small hiss beneath her cloak, apparently irritated with him for who knows what. Red bent down, picking up the trunk. Empty, it was not nearly as heavy as any of William’s had been. He placed it gently on the floor near the counter, and grabbed the wad of money to peel off the appropriate number of bills when she quoted the price. It was far more expensive than he thought was fair, but he remembered William’s desire for the finest trunk he could find. This was the one. There was a feeling of sureness about it, that even if he went elsewhere, this would still be the right one. The sun rose in the east, water was wet, and this was the trunk William needed to have.

That evening, Red knocked on William’s door, the elaborately carved trunk in tow. It was still unscratched, which was more than could be said for Red, who was nursing some very uncomfortable bruises from carrying something so awkward all the way back. Even carrying it the short distance up the stairs from the cloakroom to William’s room, it had taken Red a minute to catch his breath before he had knocked. 

William opened the door almost immediately, and Red lugged the heavy, awkward trunk through the narrow door, placing it down in the small amount of space that he had cleared for it. Mercifully, it fit. He looked to William, who was wearing a fine navy blue suit, shiny black shoes, and thin black gloves. Red felt suddenly aware of how his third-hand shirt stuck to the sweat of his chest.

“What do you think, sir?” Red asked, rubbing his hands together to ease the ache in his fingers. The ones on the left had gone numb from where he knocked his elbow on the stairwell. William smiled, approaching the chest. If he felt any apprehension as Red had, it didn’t show. In fact he seemed quite charmed by it. He opened it and caressed the luxurious red interior. He gave a brief nod.

“This is very nice.”

“Glad you like it.” Red said, trying not to smile. He started folding the long sleeves of his shirt to his elbow, attempting to hide how pleased he was at the validation. “I thought it seemed to your tastes. What I’ve seen of them, anyway.”

“I appreciate that. Given your background, I must confess I was afraid you would have chosen one of those horrible American metal trunks. But this one is excellent.” He said, silently closing the chest. 

Red considered mentioning the feeling of dread he’d had when he first saw it. He decided against it; he knew it must have been his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe it was just that the shopkeeper had been vaguely unsettling.

“Oh, and before I forget.” Red pulled the money from his pocket. “This is what was left. It ended up costing more than I thought it would.”

“Deduct your fee and then place it on the writing desk.” William waved him off, not even looking at the money. He was focused on tracing the carved design on the front of the trunk with his gloved fingers, the same way Red had done.

Red pulled a few bills free, quickly stuffing them into his billfold and cramming them into his pocket. It still didn’t feel secure enough.  He placed the rest of the money on the desk and wondered what it was like to be so unconcerned about money that you wouldn’t even look. “Did you need anything else this evening?”

“I do not believe so. Does the hotel require your services?” William stood up, and moved to the trunk that contained the box of money; the one that was full of the wooden carvings. He opened it and began to delicately pick a few of the carvings up.

“I don’t think so.” Red shook his head. “They had me run a few errands today, so I was going to head home and catch up on sleep, if you didn’t need anything else, s—” He stopped himself, remembering William’s reminder about being called ‘sir.’ Instead, he let the sentence linger. That seemed worse, somehow.

William paused, gently placing the carvings down. He went back to the new chest and placed his fingers to the clasp for a moment. Red hesitated. William hadn’t dismissed him, but walking off seemed like it would be rude. He wished William would say something, and it seemed like he would, eventually, but there he was, running a thumb over the clasp like he was looking for something. Maybe he was expecting Red to keep talking. Should he say something? It seemed he was maybe supposed to, but what?

“If you are interested, I may have an opportunity for you.” William said, finally.

Red almost sagged with relief. “Yes?”

“I was planning on employing a valet in the next few weeks. I have errands that must be attended to: shopping, deliveries, that sort of thing. Much like what you did today.” He stood and wiped the front of his already spotless jacket with his right hand. It seemed deliberate, somehow.

Red considered it, but not for long. It sounded like a good deal. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Excellent. What is your weekly wage?”

“150 lire, sir.” Red replied. It was reasonable enough for a hotel’s night-porter. Really, considering his murky background and awful Italian, he thought the hotel had been generous. He couldn’t afford any luxuries by any means, but with some notable sacrifices he was able to eat three simple meals a day and still slowly accumulate a nest egg for the time when he would inevitably need to go on the run again.

“I will pay double that to have you on retainer.” There was no hesitation in William’s voice.

“Oh. Um. That’s very generous, si—Mister Ryan. Are you…sure, though?” He raised his eyebrows, almost skeptical. “That’s a lot of money, and I don’t think…I’m not quite worth that much money.” He said finally, hating how it sounded. 

William smiled. “You are worth whatever someone is willing to pay you. Besides, it is not easy work. The hours will be long, and you will have to travel all over town. And, as you will be on retainer, I will need you to be available at my convenience.”

“I can do that.” Red held his hand out for William to shake. He found himself more than slightly motivated by the opportunity to work more closely with William, in addition to the wage. It would be nice to have someone to talk to, someone to see more than once, and to get to speak in English again. 

“Excellent.” William pulled off his right glove, deliberately, slowly, leaving Red’s hand hanging in the air. When he finally shook it, it felt completely different to any other hand he had ever shaken. William’s skin was soft, his grip strong, and his palm slightly cold. He knew his hand would have had to be awfully clammy in comparison, warm and sweaty from having carried the trunk up the stairs.   
  


William pulled his left glove off with the same amount of care, and placed them neatly on the writing desk. He then moved back to the carvings, picking them up and placing them next to the new trunk. “Where do you live?” William asked, feigning mild interest.

“Oh, uh…” Red hesitated, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m just staying on Signore Polidoro’s property, a few miles out of town.”

“Ah, in a spare room?” He opened the new trunk, and started placing the wooden carvings into it, as though they would shatter if he wasn’t careful.

“…not exactly.”

“Oh?”

Red paused, trying to think of how best to phrase it. “Technically speaking, I sleep in the barn.”

William’s eyes flickered to him, just for a second. His eyebrow raised, just barely. It was a tiny movement. “Is the pay at this hotel not adequate?” He asked, ceasing the business of relocating the carvings.

“It’s not the hotel’s fault.” Red added quickly. “Times are hard for everyone right now. And the barn’s not so bad.”

William frowned. “Well, I had best let you get back there. Give the hotel notice at once. I will have a job for you at eight o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Red was never comfortable speaking to Paola Di Pietro, right from when he first met her. It had been three months earlier, back when he had been going door-to-door, trying to sell services—cleaning, repairing, mending… anything—in awful Italian that consisted mostly of the word ‘lavoro’ (job) and a lot of gesturing. She had approached him in the street, telling him that her hotel needed a porter urgently, and that she was willing to take a gamble on him. He’d been suspicious at first: Paola looked to be his younger sister’s age, with long, impossibly straight blonde hair, smooth skin, and a sharp look in her eyes. What authority could a young woman like her possibly have to hire a hotel porter? 

But Red had been knocking on doors for hours that day: and it was nearly noon and he hadn’t even been able to do so much as sweep a floor for a crust of bread. If she was willing to take a gamble on him, then he was in no position to be picky. 

And now, after working in her hotel for three months and seeing how perfectly suited she was to running it, he’d become intimidated by her—especially now he had to resign. He was worried she’d be cross with him, leaving after everything the hotel had invested in him: not just the third-hand uniforms, but the help with the language and the advice that Adelina had given him on how to lift things without hurting his back. He knew that if things didn’t work out with William, he’d have to try to get this job back. It wasn’t a bridge he wanted to burn—or smoulder even slightly.

“Singora Di Pietro?” Red murmured, knocking on her open door. Her office was small, sparsely decorated: tall, metal lockers that were never opened dominated the far wall and a pair of crossed swords hung on the wall by the door, glinting in the electric light. Red had always felt intimidated by those swords: they almost looked as though they had been placed there so they could be pulled off in a fight. Unlike the ones at the trunk stall, these swords were practical, with sturdy handles and blades that looked like they had been kept sharp enough to glide through a man’s rib cage. Finally, there was the window: it took up the whole of the back wall and showed the vertical columns of the pantheon illuminated in the soft moonlight. This was, to Red, the oddest part of the entire room: the window was not only unobscured but completely bare, not even sporting a curtain rod above the frame. Every other window in the hotel had shutters and layers upon layers of thick black curtains, but this one had no way to block out the sun’s glare. 

“Yes, Carlo?” She asked, not even looking up from the letter she was writing. She was one of the few people who normally spoke English to him, but they were still the most uncomfortable conversations he had. She was never rude with him, but something about how she spoke always made him feel like he was interrupting something. 

Red cleared his throat and began to pick at his cuticles. “I won’t be coming in for work tomorrow. Or after that. For the foreseeable future.”

That was enough to make her look up. “Why?” The question was sharp, firm and her eyes narrowed slightly.

“One of the guests has asked me to work as his valet full-time, so I won’t be able to stay on as a porter.”

Paola nodded, tapping her finger nail against her teeth. He wondered if it hurt. “Ah, yes. I had noticed Mister Ryan had taken a…  _ liking _ to you.”

Red felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine and into his belly, where it coiled like a snake. He felt scrutinised, like he was missing something; like the other staff were talking about him behind his back, gossiping in rapid-fire Italian they knew he wouldn’t understand even if he overheard. He knew that his work for William couldn’t have gone unnoticed: she had once seen he was missing a button on his shirt even though the button would have been tucked in anyway. Nothing got past her, not in  _ her  _ hotel.

“I’m sorry,” Red murmured. “It meant a lot—really, an awful lot—that you hired me, considering… my Italian and everything.” 

“It is a compliment to the quality of our staff that our discerning patrons take such a liking to them.” Paola turned her attention back to her letter. 

Red had never heard her compliment anyone. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “He wants me to start tomorrow night.” He said, deciding to act as though he didn’t find it odd. “But if you’re short, I can try to work something out with him so I can cover the desk when you need.”

Paola shook her head. “No, Carlo. You are excused.”

Red nodded, his chest almost deflating with relief. “Thank you, Signora Di Pietro.”

She waved him off, not even looking up to see him leave.

“Good evening, Carlo. Are you ready to check in?” Adelina, the front desk clerk, asked when Red came through the door the next evening. While Red’s Italian wasn’t perfect by any means, the three months he spent working at the hotel meant he had a good command of all the relevant vocabulary.

“Oh, no. I still live at Signore Polidoro’s. I am here to see William Ryan. Did Singora di Pietro tell you I work for him now?” Red replied, a bit surprised by her assumption. She had to have known there was no way someone on his wage could possibly afford to stay at the hotel.

“Yes, she did. But Signore Ryan had us prepare you a room. He said you will check in tonight.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“He was very clear.”

Red stared at her for a moment, mouth slightly open. He cleared his throat. “Well,  alright then. I suppose I will be staying here tonight.”

“Please sign here.” The clerk handed him a piece of paper, his name already filled in. Red took her pen and made an ‘X’’ on the dotted line. He would have to sort it out later; he didn’t want to be late for his first day as William’s valet. 

“Is that everything you need?” 

She nodded. “Yes, here’s your key.” He pocketed it—it was small, brass, and felt warm in his hand—but went straight to William’s door and knocked.

“Good evening, Mister Rossi.” He said, motioning Red inside. “Have they shown you to your room yet?”

“Ah, yes. About that. I do appreciate it, but even with the generous wage you’re offering me, staying here really isn’t a possibility for me. Financially.” He said awkwardly, not wanting to refuse William’s good will, but not wanting to spend so much of his income on a place to sleep. The thought that he may have to run again was itching at the back of his mind, and he wanted to save as much as he could in the meantime. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, but it was a necessary one.

“No, no!” William replied, amused. “Living so far out of town, in a barn that I can only assume has no telephone is simply unacceptable if you are to do everything I require of you. I will be paying the bill, of course.”

“Oh! That’s very….generous.” Red hastily tried to add up how much it would cost to pay for two rooms here on a long term basis. It was absurd. “Are you sure? That’s a lot of money for convenience’s sake.”

“Are you questioning my financial situation?” William raised an eyebrow at him; another tiny, barely noticeable movement. 

Red’s eyes went wide. “No, of course not! I just meant that… it’s a  _ lot  _ of money.” He repeated weakly. The pressed on as William’s eyebrow twitched again. “And I understand your need for convenience, but… I don’t think my work is worth quite so much, sir.”

“If that is the case, then you will find I will not keep you on for long.” He replied, but with no threat in his voice. 

“Well, okay. Then what can I do for you, sir?” 

The corner of William’s lip twitched. “That’s twice now you’ve called me sir. Have you forgotten our previous discussion?”   
  
“Right, of course.” That urge to bow was bubbling up again, like a gentle weight on his shoulders and a heaviness in his stomach.   
  
William went over to the writing desk to pick up a thick, wax-sealed letter and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and string. He handed each to Red in turn. The package was heavy for its size. He wondered what was in it.

“Deliver these to the address on the front.” He paused. “I do not trust the Italian postal service.”

“Neither would I.” Red agreed, studying the parcel and the letter. He turned his attention to the address. “I can be there and back in two hours. Should I report to you when I get back, or will you be asleep?”

“I am expecting a return letter, so deliver it when you return. I will not be asleep.”

How could someone already have the reply when the letter hadn’t been delivered yet?

He shrugged it off. Rich people were strange.

Red made impressively good time. He’d gotten the hang of how the Italians built their winding streets and narrow alleys, and how to hitch a ride from drivers who would actually save him time instead of costing it with long stories and bad shortcuts.

He returned in ninety minutes with another envelope. It, too, had been heavy, made from a textured linen and sealed with an intricate design, stamped into black wax. 

He spent the walk thinking about the hotel room that William had arranged for him. He seemed far too generous. Was he being foolish? Kind? Or maybe he just didn’t understand how expensive it was, or didn’t care? Was the work Red was hired for so important it justified the cost? 

Or, maybe, did William like  _ him _ enough to justify the cost?

The thought gave him a heaviness in his stomach, uncomfortable but not unpleasant. He tried not to dwell on it.

Regardless, he was determined to live up to the expectation that the man had set. He maintained a slow jog most of the way back, catching his breath as he entered the hotel. He was still covered with a thin sheen of sweat when he knocked on William’s door.

There was a short pause as William opened the door. “That was quick.” He said; clearly, he was impressed.

“I’m getting the hang of the city.” He handed William the envelope, trying to hide how pleased he was with himself. “The servant gave me this for you. She said it was important to tell you that her master is enjoying the current weather.”

“Thank you.” He took the letter. “Could you please go back and inform the servant that I found the rain rather charming?” 

It had not rained in more than a week; and even then, it had been a mere spatter of rain that barely dampened the soil. 

That was definitely odd. Was he delivering a code? Could William be a spy?

Perhaps being on the run had made Red paranoid.

Still.

Deserting was one thing; treason was another. But William had said he was Australian. Australia wasn’t allied with the Axis. Maybe William was a spy for the United Nations? But then he would have to be suspicious of Red, an American, here, now, with the draft in place. Maybe—

William was looking at him. “Are you alright?”

Red snapped out of it. It wasn’t a problem for now. He could figure out what to do later. It wasn’t likely. It couldn’t be. And if it was...it was a problem for later.

“Of course.” He muttered, trying not to think about how he was already a little tired. “Did you want me to take anything with me?”

“No. I hope to have a letter ready when you return.” William had clearly not been joking about this job being more challenging.

“No problem.” Red forced a smile. “Anything you need.”


	4. Interlude

Yolande knocked gently on her master’s door. “My lord?”

“Yes?”

“The messenger said that his majesty found the rain rather charming.”

Cassius paused, taking a moment to compose a reply. “Have him tell King William that it has done my marigolds well.” He enjoyed the irony of the night porter sending a message predicting his own doom.

He picked a heavy, wax-sealed envelope off a shelf. “And have the messenger deliver this.” In the letter, Cassius confirmed that William could take the human for his own use, and outlined the sorts of favours that he would one day expect in return.

“As you wish, my lord,” Yolande replied.

He nodded. “You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She curtsied and rushed over to the drawing room where the messenger was waiting to receive the second letter and third cryptic remark of the evening. 

Yolande pondered over what she’d just heard. She had worked for Cassius for a hundred and twenty years. Back in her youth, before she had gotten involved in all of this, it was popular for friends and suitors to send each other messages using flowers. Each bloom had its own meaning; there were dictionaries printed that kept track of them all. She fondly remembered giving a card featuring a drawing of a mimosa flower to an overly eager suitor: the flower, a symbol of chastity, had told him that she would not provide him with what he was after. 

Marigolds were the flowers of grief, so she idly wondered if there had been a recent death.

She had known for a long time that Cassius’s letters and cards were full of symbols and hidden meanings, but there was no dictionary that could begin to decipher them.


	5. Jonquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Red begins to get suspicious of William's strange errands, he is met with a surprise.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/volvob12b/11286070694/)  
"[Narcissus](https://www.flickr.com/photos/volvob12b/11286070694/)" ([Public Domain](https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/)) by [Bernard Spragg](https://www.flickr.com/people/volvob12b/)

 

#  **Jonquil**

‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’ had become Red's motto after he started working for William. ‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you’ was another he occasionally thought of. He wondered if it was about horses too. It would make sense; he didn’t think much of horses.

**** The jobs had not been too odd to start with: moving furniture, delivering letters,  shopping—grunt work, mostly. Things he expected to have to do for someone upper-class. 

**** Then he had to deliver thick stacks of handwritten documents sealed in wax, often paired with packages that ranged from smaller than his hand to so large they could hardly be carried. The deliveries were often to absurd villas that were full of displays of wealth, ridiculous for a city like Rome that was in the midst of rationing. He delivered a small statue of a bull to one apartment that had seemed refreshingly normal from the outside; but when the servant opened the door, the room was filled with peacocks. He couldn’t see the floor for the sheer number of them. They were huddled so close together that Red solemnly wondered whether they could move much at all. He felt sorry for them.

**** He wondered if he could sneak in and free them.

**** Then came the books. Red scoured small bookshops for peculiar old books that had been either kept in glass cases with absurd price tags or long-forgotten and used to prop up a wonky table. Red flipped through the books sometimes, the ‘spy’ theory still lingering in the back of his mind. The subjects of the ones that were in English ranged widely: religious poetry, a play about men competing for a woman’s heart, memoirs, one about the correct way to raise egrets. There were books of poetry, plays, and history in Italian, French, Spanish, and German as well. One was in a language he didn’t recognise, and included illustrations of hacksaws, corn, pottery, shrimp, and strange cats with pointy ears and short tails. None of the books had any suspicious markings or codes that Red could identify. If William was a spy, the code was utterly incomprehensible. 

**** Red had apparently done well finding these things, because William started giving him more varied—and bizarre—shopping lists after that. Red didn’t ask why. That would be the ‘not biting’ part. He also wondered if this information could be useful to the United Nations one day; he bought a notebook and started recording what he bought, when, where and who from. He figured it couldn’t hurt; not biting the hand that feeds hardly applied if the hand belonged to a German spy, after all.

Red was glad he no longer needed to rely on the public kitchens that sold discounted meals; not only was his wage generous compared with what the hotel offered, but several of the houses he delivered to insisted he dine with them. He would be presented with elaborate meals and encouraged to eat as much as he could, while the masters of the house picked at their own portions and stared at him without blinking—if they bothered to join him at all. One time the lady of the house watched him from a balcony while he ate on the terrace. That had been especially odd.

William always seemed eager to hear about the details of the meals, wanting to know exactly what Red was served and in what order. He had started taking notes as soon as he was excused.

**** Red found the whole thing uncomfortable at first, but it seemed less strange after he had dinner with William and he did _exactly_ the same thing. William had just sat and watched contentedly as Red worked his way through two glasses of wine, fresh tomatoes on small pieces of toast, soup, mushrooms filled with spiced polenta, beans, a salad, a plate of grapes and plums, a dessert of a dozen tiny cakes, a small glass of thick coffee, and a small glass of something that tasted like lemons and moonshine and made his throat burn. 

**** He was definitely the strangest person Red had ever met; but he was always polite and friendly towards him. Red enjoyed the company—and he had developed that odd, heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him not exactly hate being watched like that. 

**** The hours were strange, too: William never had an audience with him before sunset, and seemed to be awake at all hours of the night without so much as a yawn or flutter of the eyes. Red didn’t want to ask. He was happy to allow William’s eccentricity, harmless as it was. Besides, his odd schedule was no doubt the reason William needed a valet in the first place.

**** He toyed with theories during the taxi rides and long walks that were part of the job. His favourite was that William and his strange friends were all acquainted through some religious sect. There were many religions that were superstitious about the movements of the heavens and encouraged their members to fast but to be generous to others. It was a more comforting version of events than that he was a spy; if he were with the United Nations, Red would be caught and charged with treason; and if he were with the Axis, Red was allying himself with monsters. Though, he reflected darkly, not monsters he hated enough to risk his life to fight.

**** He tried to push the second option out of his mind. If he had proof, he would leave, even if he didn’t want to, turn everything he had on William over to the army, and accept his punishment. Maybe it would assuage some of his guilt. 

**** One day, his shopping list included a deck of a specific type of  playing cards, along with stone statues, special plant oils, and farm tools. It had taken the full day to find everything, and he didn’t think William would be happy with the quality of the corn knife he had found, but overall he felt he had done well. But he still didn’t understand why anyone would need a fancy corn knife: it was for harvesting _corn_ ; how fancy could you get?

**** When Red arrived at William’s room at eight o’clock sharp (even slowing down on the stairs to be sure), there was a mug of thick, hearty coffee waiting for him in front of one of the comfortable armchairs. He started drinking while William inspected the shopping.

**** “I did not think you would be able to find a corn knife.” 

**** “It took some looking, but I managed.” Red felt calmer for the first time in a while; just a week ago, he would never have been comfortable sitting and drinking coffee while William stood and examined the shopping. Red had come to enjoy the way William inspected his shopping, the way the corners of his mouth curled upwards ever so slightly when he was satisfied. Noticing small things made Red more comfortable; he felt like he was finally getting used to William’s strange, relaxed etiquette. Maybe even starting to understand him. Red held the warm cup of coffee in both hands and watched as William picked up a bottle of sweet-smelling oil in his gloved hands, and smelled at the cork. 

**** “Are you going to make perfume with that, or something?” 

**** William smiled. “No, it is for a friend.”

**** “Is he going to make perfume?”

**** “She might, yes.” William placed the bottle back on the table with the acceptable items— on the rare occasions something had been rejected, it had been placed on the floor—and picked up the deck of cards. The box was old, the cardboard fraying at the edges. The cards themselves had once been colourful, but time had dirtied and faded them in places. One had even been torn almost halfway through. Red managed to bargain the price down by almost a quarter for that.

**** “Do you play?”

**** “Play what?” William asked, carefully opening the box and sliding a few of the cards out. 

**** “Bridge?” Red paused, realising that there were only two of them and that he didn’t really know how to play bridge, anyway. “Pinochle, anything like that?” 

**** William grinned, examining the cards. “I haven’t in quite some time, but yes, I can.” He noticed the torn card, and gave a small frown. 

**** “Are you any good?” 

**** “I was.” He gently placed the cards back into their tattered box. 

**** Red paused, worried about being inappropriate. William was smiling again and had a gleam in his eye. 

**** “Would you… like to play now?” Red asked.

**** “If you wish. They have cards at the front desk.”

**** Red nodded. He knew that the expensive, decades-old deck of cards had not been bought to play. “I’ll go get some.”

**** Four days later, Red had finished another of William’s strange errands. It had taken every single one of those days, tracking down all the items on the odd list that William had given him. This list had come with another purse full of so much money that Red was once again paranoid about pickpockets. When Red remarked on this earlier, just in passing, William had presented him with a stiletto that could be hidden in the sleeve of his shirt. Its handle alone looked like it was worth more than the contents of the purse it was meant for defending.

**** Each of the items had been carefully wrapped in sheets of thin paper and put carefully into the false bottom of a suitcase: a statue of a woman made from green stone, an idol of a long-forgotten god, a wooden cup lined with silver, the skin of a platypus, a basket woven from flax that adhered to William’s exacting requirements for thickness and colour, and a pendant with a stone that seemed to subtly change colour when handled. 

**** It had taken days to track them all down, and it was with no small amount of pride that he realised he was actually quite good at it. Had a knack for it, even. It felt good to have a talent; there was nothing quite like the satisfaction of finding something after searching for hours.

**** “Shall I have someone take your bag, Signore Rossi?” asked Adelina as Red entered. Now he was officially a guest, she always offered. And he always refused.

**** “No, thank you. I’ve got it.” Red shook his head, holding the bag a little tighter on instinct. He went up the stairs, two at a time, and knocked on the door to William’s room.  

**** “Good evening,” William said, motioning for Red to enter. He was wearing a dark blue three-piece suit with a white shirt, suspenders, and a red and white striped tie. This was well within his usual style, though it seemed to Red that he had never seen William wear the same article of clothing twice. He wondered where he kept it all.

**** “Good evening.” Red held up the suitcase. “I found everything you wanted.”

**** There was a perceptible pause. That was rare with William. 

**** “Everything?” 

**** “Yes. I hope they’re what you meant.” He took the list out of his pocket, trying once again not to look too pleased. The paper was creased and beginning to thin, the writing fading away in places from being unfolded and refolded many times. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be happy with the female figure I got, so there’s a second one in there, just in case.”

**** William gently opened the suitcase, silently slid out the false bottom—he never accidentally grated at the side like Red did when he opened it—and silently scrutinised each object in turn. He placed them on the writing desk, one by one. It took almost ten minutes, but Red stood patiently: there was no coffee waiting on the table for him this time, so he thought he might be asked to go out again.

**** “These will do quite nicely. Thank you.” William said, as he placed the last item in position.

**** “There’s about a third of the money left,” Red added, pulling the purse from the hidden pocket in the heavy material of his pants. He had sewn it in himself a few weeks earlier. The stiletto wasn’t the only precaution he took. “The idol didn't cost as much as I thought. He seemed happy to be rid of it.”

**** “Take half for yourself, and place the rest on the bedside table,” William murmured, taking a small step towards him. 

**** “Oh. Thank you. That’s… very generous of you,” he said, purposely not meeting William's gaze. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, and the blood thudding in his temples, the way it always did whenever William stood that close to him.

**** “You have earned it. You’re very talented, Carlo.” 

**** “Ha. Thank you.” Red enjoyed that William respected him and appreciated his hard work. It felt good, but also undeserved; he knew that the only reason he was working for William was because of his prior cowardice.

**** “I am lucky to have met you.”

**** “Because I’m good at finding strange knives?”

**** “That is not the only reason. I have enjoyed having you around.” William smiled, taking another step forward, still staring at Red. He was now definitely standing too close, but Red found that he didn’t feel as uncomfortable as would have expected. He didn’t know how to react. His cheeks were starting to burn. William was _very_ close. Red could smell his cologne: lemon and lavender.

**** The heavy feeling was settling in his stomach again. He had gotten used to it, and realised it was not as unfamiliar as he had thought. It made him think of being fourteen, learning how to dance with the freckled girl in his class. He had noticed how she smelled then, too. Or being eighteen, kissing a different girl (also with freckles) on a dare at a party. The feeling was heavy, and warm, and uncomfortable, but not unpleasant.

**** It was the same feeling, yet slightly different. It had more substance now. 

**** William took another small step closer, gently running his left hand down the length of Red’s right forearm. Red let go of the purse, letting it fall to the ground. He had no idea what was coming, what was expected from him. Was he supposed to go? Stay? Was William going to call for coffee? It was all happening so quickly, Red didn’t know how to react. William quickly moved his hand over to Red’s hip, watching for his reaction.

**** Red stood nervous, not quite sure if all this was really happening, as he felt his pulse thudding against the tense muscle of his throat. He leaned into William’s touch all the same, and with that, the tension seemed to ease. 

That was all the encouragement William needed. He placed his right hand on the side of Red’s head, and moved them still closer together. Red’s hand moved to William’s waist, his rough calluses bunching on the smooth, soft material of William’s shirt. They were very close together, their noses almost touching, when— 

**** William kissed him. It lasted for only a few seconds, but that was enough for Red to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was nothing in the world that he had never wanted anything more than to kiss him again.

**** William pulled back for a moment, studying Red’s expression, hoping that he wouldn't react badly to the advance. But there was no chance of that. Red moved to kiss him again, for longer this time, pushing his weight almost entirely against him.

**** Red had kissed people before—always girls. William’s face felt harder, more teeth behind his lips. Women had always gone slightly limp when he kissed them, following his lead on how to turn, how to kiss. Red would pull away often, check they still wanted to be there, hold back in fear of hurting them or making them uncomfortable.

**** But he had never kissed anyone like this. He didn’t have to check. He didn’t need to.

**** It was technically wrong in so many ways: he was his boss; he was a _man_. But kissing him felt good. Just as good. Better even. There was no pulling back, no checking if he still wanted to be there.

**** Kissing William was _wonderful_. It raised goosebumps up his arms. The smell of William filled him every time he pulled back for breath. William’s body was big and solid and strong in a way that was different and exciting and comforting and familiar all at once.

**** And then, just as quickly as it had started, William stopped him. 

**** “It is late. You should return to your room,” he said, stroking Red’s cheek with his thumb.

**** Red shook his head. He didn’t know what to say or do, but he did not want this to stop.

**** William kissed Red’s forehead and broke the embrace, though he didn’t step away, still close, close enough to kiss again. “I am sure you did not expect this, Carlo.” 

**** “No—I mean, I didn’t—but it was good.” The word was nowhere enough. He wanted to wrap his arms around him, to bring him in again, close what little gap there was. “You don’t want to?”

**** “I want you to think about this.” 

**** Red stared at him, not understanding. “What’s there to think about?”

Having had its fill, the vampire tossed the middle-aged woman to the side. She stumbled, falling to the garden path with a small thump. She lay there, her fingers tracing patterns in the cobblestones as she let out a sigh of contentment. 

**** “Don’t stop for politeness’ sake. I am sure that one has at least a pint of blood left,” Cassius quipped, sitting at a wrought iron table. His white-gloved hands gave gestured orders at the servants digging up flowers in the garden, who only watched out of the corner of their eyes.

**** “It has been a long time since I’ve killed someone else’s janissary, your majesty,” William muttered, the inch-long fangs shrinking back into his dentition. The woman stood, curtseyed deeply, and walked away. The two vampires ignored her.

**** “Let’s not be too formal with each other tonight. I’d prefer to speak plainly.” 

**** “Why, exactly?” William sat in the chair opposite.

**** “I know what I want in exchange for that human, and I don’t want to be bogged down with niceties.” Cassius paused. “Have you killed him, yet?”

**** “I have not even fed from him.” William held his shoulders proudly.

**** “Really?”

**** “Yes.”

**** “What other use would you have for him?”

**** “I have him go shopping.”

**** “Ah, I thought I might try him at that, after the opera, when the hotel wasn’t so busy.”

**** “He was very good at it. Better than any other I have seen.”

**** “Really?”

**** “He was able to find a flax basket that was suitable to present to a duke as amends for dispatching his janissary. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a human who can do that?”

**** “I wouldn’t know, I have never needed such a gift.” Cassius laughed, before pausing and taking on a serious tone of voice. “And here I was thinking you were going to woo him, after what we saw at the opera. You were saying it might be fashionable soon.” 

**** “Even if it were, it would be a lot of work. And you know how conservative Queen Kalina is. If I were to bother, I don’t know if she’d be impressed by it; and nobody else worth talking about lives on the continent.” William shook his head. “No, I plan on having him do some shopping, using him to get any official documents I may need, and making him into a janissary.”

**** “And when you get bored?”

**** “What I do with my janissaries is my business,” William smiled. “Now, what did you want in exchange for him?”

**** “Do you have a duchy one of my progeny could rule?”

**** “I have plenty of land; it’s prey that’s the problem. Do they keep janissaries sustainably?” 

**** “You’re one to judge!” 

**** “My city of three hundred and fifty thousand is more than enough for my habits. However, the town I am thinking of has perhaps ten thousand.”

**** “That will be fine for a pup.” 

**** “Why do you wish to move them, if I may ask?”

**** “Politics. The town you have in mind would be isolated from the rest of us?”

**** “Extremely.”

**** “Then it will be perfect.”

**** Red slept in small, fitful dozes that barely registered, between long bouts of staring at the ceiling, his mind running in circles. His bed, normally pleasantly soft, had been rolled about on so much the surface just felt damp and full of lumps. He couldn’t get comfortable. 

**** That was the least of his worries.

**** William was a man. Red had never kissed a man. He hadn’t really entertained the notion. Kissing men. A man.

**** Red pressed his hands into his cheeks. It wasn’t that he hadn’t _thought_ about it. It had come and gone. Every now and then, the image, the curiosity, would crop up; but less often than he thought about women.

****_ —maybe because you let yourself think about women more— _

**** And overall he _had_ thought about women more.

**** He knew there were men who were… _with_ other men. He knew of it. But he considered his own thoughts of it in the same way as thoughts of jumping off bridges and whatnot: weird ideas from the back of his mind that he didn’t entertain. Everyone had those strange thoughts sometimes. And sometimes those thoughts were dreams. It was fine. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything.

**** But kissing William had been terrific.

**** Terrific wasn’t a strong enough word.

**** He grinned at the ceiling, his chest feeling like it was fit to burst. He pressed his hands into his cheeks again, feeling the stubble under the heels of his palms. His hands tingled. Warmth ran up his spine in small electric shocks. 

**** It was like kissing girls in high school. But different. Better. There was more of this feeling, whatever it was, this time. And he knew it wasn’t for any other men, not even the ones who had crossed his mind back home. Just William.

**** Red’s grin faded.

**** Who was a man.

**** And his boss.

**** And possibly a German spy.

**** He pushed that last thought aside. No. There was no way. He wouldn’t acknowledge it. Refused to. It was impossible. It was _illegal_. Had to be illegal in Germany, too. There was no way William could have kissed him like that _and_ been a spy.

**** Red knew that. But it niggled at him. Like a tiny pebble in his shoe.

**** He went back to William’s room the next evening.

**** William answered the door, wearing his usual casual attire: pants, suspenders, and a long-sleeved shirt. Red noticed that he wasn’t wearing the gloves that usually went with it; but the thought only stayed with him a second, lost in the sea of nervous feelings that had consumed him the past day as he hoped and wondered what was going to happen next.

**** “Good evening.” William smiled, gesturing for Red to enter the room. William could sense there was something off about Red; the way he held his shoulders revealed a tension that had not been there last night. 

**** “Evening,” Red replied, managing to force the word out as he stepped inside, his arms held stiffly at his sides. 

**** “Would you like me to arrange some coffee?” 

**** “That would be good, thank you.” Red fidgeted, clenching and unclenching his hands as William picked up the phone and made his request. The moment he hung up, Red was out with it. “I have to ask you something.”

**** “Of course.” 

**** “Okay.” Red took a deep breath, thinking. He hesitated, opening his mouth and closing it again. “Will you be honest?” he said finally. It was barely a question, more a statement. He already trusted William more than he was willing to acknowledge.

**** “I will be honest, though there are some secrets I may yet keep.”

**** Red thought about it for a few moments, looking down at his clenched hands. “Will you tell me if you can’t tell me?”

**** “Yes.”

**** “Okay.” Red took another deep breath. “ _Are-you-a-spy-for-the-Germans_?” he said, immediately cringing at himself. He wanted it to sound accusatory, strong, and powerful. Instead it came out like a child’s voice, rushed and tinged with hope and worry.

**** William shook his head. “Oh, goodness no. I am not involved with the war, on either side.” 

**** Red visibly sagged with relief. He put a hand to his forehead. He felt like all the air had gone out of him. “But the letters, the packages… they’re nothing to do with the war?”

**** “No, they are not. Please, sit down.” He gestured for Red to sit in one of the chairs, the ones they had sat in when they first negotiated their working arrangement.

**** Red’s shoulders tightened again, but he sat all the same. The chair was firm and well-made, but didn’t make him any more comfortable. William sat in the chair opposite him, his movements calm, his posture straight, but relaxed.

**** “Is everything alright?” William asked.

**** “Yes. No.” He rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t stop touching his face. He wasn’t sure why. “Well. You being a spy would be… less than ideal.”

**** “I can imagine.” William gave another small smile, which faded as his voice became more serious. “I know I have put you in an uncomfortable position, and suspecting I was a spy must have made it all the more so.”

**** Red leaned forward in his chair, his hands on the arm rests. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t make me uncomfortable. Not like that, I mean.”

**** William opened his mouth to speak, but there was a harsh knock at the door. He sighed.

**** “ _Entra!_ ” he called. Adelina entered the room, carrying a small tray of coffee. She gave Red the same mildly awkward smile many of his former coworkers had been furnishing him with since he started staying at the hotel. Red returned it with the same awkward wave he had been furnishing them with. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it.

**** “ _Metterli sul tavolo,”_ William instructed. Adelina obliged, placing one cup of thick, black coffee in front of each of them. She bowed, wished them a good evening, and left.

**** William picked up his mug and blew at the steam. He held it for a few moments and then placed it back down. Red gratefully picked up his own mug, and sipped at it, even though he couldn’t taste anything beneath the heat that burned his tongue. He needed something to do with his hands.

**** The pause started out comfortable, became awkward when it became clear neither of them was about to start talking, and then grew comfortable and familiar as the seconds ticked past. 

**** “I regret what I did last night,” William said, finally, as Red started to take a second sip of his drink.

**** Red almost choked. “What?”

**** “It was unbecoming of a gentleman,” he said plainly. “One does not make advances on one’s employees.”

**** “Well, they could,” Red murmured, clearing his throat. “Depending on circumstances.” He took another shaky sip of his coffee. It had cooled enough that he could taste a hint of the rich bitterness through the overpowering heat.

**** “How do you mean?”

**** Red hesitated, trying to think of something witty. He gave up. “I liked kissing you.”

**** “I liked it, too.” He leaned forward. “But that does not make it appropriate.”

**** “I can handle inappropriate.” He rested his elbows on his knees, the coffee cup still in his hands. He hesitated. “As long as you’re definitely not a spy. I have standards.”

**** “I am not, but I don’t think you could trust a spy to answer honestly.” William picked up his coffee cup, placing it against his lips for a moment. He paused and placed it down again, leaning further forward. 

**** Red considered this; the thought had occurred to him. “I guess not. But I trust you.” He wondered what to do with his cup. 

**** William smiled. He let the pause endure for a few moments more than would be typical. “Is the coffee to your liking?”

**** “I want to kiss you again.” Red stared levelly into William’s eyes and placed his cup down. This time there was no cringing at his inability to keep his cool, though his rapid heartbeat seemed to fill his entire chest.

**** “Are you sure? It would be most inappropriate.” William grinned, meeting Red’s gaze, and leaned in further, placing his hand on Red’s upper arm just for a moment, as though he was brushing a piece of dust away. They both knew he wasn’t.

**** “I’ll live.” Red hesitated for a moment, wanting to lean further forward, but realising with frustration that the coffee table was in his way. His face was so close to William’s; there seemed to be only six inches between them. Red’s cheeks felt flushed, his throat dry. All he could think was how _stupid_ he had been last month when he placed the coffee table between the armchairs.

**** William sat there, the grin still on his face, as though he wasn’t acutely aware of Red’s predicament with the table; or perhaps he was amused by it. 

**** Frustrated, Red stood up, leaning forward and down to bridge the gap and kiss him, their lips meeting across the coffee table. Red pressed his mouth hungrily against William’s, wanting to enjoy the moment while he still had that first burst of courage in him. William leaned into the kiss, putting his hand gently on the back of Red’s head, firmly, but without the force of Red’s.

**** Red pulled at William’s shirt, urging him into a standing position as the kiss grew less frantic and more passionate, deeper. William stood, and Red shuffled himself closer to William; but, in doing so, Red bumped his shin on the coffee table. The pain of the bump meant nothing, but the high, hollow sound of the table sliding along the floorboards made Red’s skin crawl. He broke the kiss, just for a moment; but that was enough for him to see his coffee cup wobbling dangerously out of the corner of his eye.

**** The cup tipped over with a small thud, spilling the thick, dark liquid all over the table. 

**** “Should we… do something about that?” Red breathed, that burst of courage almost gone.

**** William smiled. “No. A spill never hurt anybody.” 

**** It had surprised Red that William hadn’t known how to play poker; but perhaps it wasn’t popular in Australia.

**** He had learned quickly, and proved to be a worthy opponent: his countenance was often inscrutable, but sometimes Red would recognise the barest twitch of his mouth when he drew good cards. Red knew he had tells of his own, but that was fine: it made for a competitive game, one where they could share stories, discussions growing deeper and more intimate than they had been back before they had kissed, back when they were still playing pinochle. 

**** Over the next week, they talked about everything: men, women, travelling, regional alcohol quality, and Red’s day-to-day struggles at the steel mill from before he had been drafted—though Red carefully avoided any mention of the army. William revealed that he dealt in antiques, and confided that he occasionally smuggled them, which was a good enough explanation for the shopping trips, packages, and strange codes to relieve the weight in Red’s chest. Not legal, but not _treason_.

**** Despite the new closeness in their relationship, William kept his quirks: he didn’t like Red visiting before eight o’clock, and sent him back to his room in the early hours of the morning. Red was so used to this that it didn’t occur to him to ask about it.

****They played cards. They lay on the bed and listened to the radio. They even took walks around town—though Red didn’t like those as much, for he was too scared to touch William. And he wanted to touch William, to feel safe and warm and wanted the way William’s arms and lips and body made him feel when they had their private moments together.

**** Their relationship didn’t move beyond kisses, fond words, and long embraces. One evening William had gently moved his hands down the back of Red’s trousers, but Red had flinched, and William had moved his hand back to Red’s hip, whispering an apology. He never made an advance like that again. Red was glad for it: it was all so new, and wonderful, but there were things he wasn’t ready for. Things that weren't ready to be pushed. Not yet.

**** Red lay there, on his side, his forehead touching William’s, for what felt like hours, as the melodious sounds of Italian music played on the radio. He dozed. He didn’t want to move. On some level he still felt this was too good to be true, and he didn’t want to think about anything else.

**** His stomach growled. He ignored it, trying to enjoy the feeling for a little longer. But it was too late: he’d entertained the thought of food, so the pain that dug diagonally into his belly grew sharper. William had clearly heard his stomach, too, for he moved, pulling away from Red. Red’s fingers impulsively grabbed at William’s shirt as he moved.

**** “Well, I suppose it is time we get you something to eat,” he said softly, running his hand up Red’s neck with feather-light fingers.

**** “You’re not hungry yet, are you?” Red asked, forcing his hands to relax. He didn’t want to get up. He didn’t want William to get up, either.

**** “I won’t be. I ate before you arrived.” 

**** “One day I’ll actually get to see you eat,” Red murmured, propping himself on one elbow to kiss William’s cheek. Reluctantly, he got out of the bed. It had taken him more than a week to be comfortable getting out of bed, rather than holding onto William as though he had to savour every moment like he wasn’t going to get more. “I need something big. Something filling,” he added, as he adjusted his belt.

**** “Do you want lasagne again?” William asked, getting out of bed with the same care and precision he gave to everything.

**** “That’ll work,” Red said, moving over to kiss him again, at the edge of his eye. “And if you change your mind, I can share. I was raised right, you know—great at sharing.”

**** “Of that I am sure,” he agreed, making for the phone while Red grinned. William picked up the receiver and spoke to the concierge in Italian. Red didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop. He didn’t have the energy for it. William started undoing the buttons of his long-sleeved shirt. He often changed shirts two or three times a night, claiming they were dirty, even though this shirt was still whiter than anything Red had ever owned.

**** William hung up the receiver and went to his wardrobe to pick out a clean shirt from the dozens that hung there—this one bright yellow. “Your meal will arrive in five minutes. I told them I was rather hungry.” He shrugged his white shirt off, gently folding it and placing it into a basket at the foot of the wardrobe.

**** Red’s first thought was to say something sentimental and cheesy, but he thought better of it. “Thank you,” he said instead. It wouldn’t have come out right anyway. “You’re spoiling me, you know. My mother wouldn’t approve.”

**** William gave a small chuckle as he pulled on the yellow shirt. “Mothers never do,” he replied, moving forward to where Red was standing, placing his hands at Red’s side to give him a short kiss. As he was about to break it to put his shoes on, Red grabbed his collar, pulling him closer, embracing him with a kind of unbridled joy he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before he’d met William. When Red was finished, he released him, sitting on the bed to watch him finish getting ready: shoes, vests, coats, and ties felt excessively fancy for him, but seemed a necessity for William. There was a comfortable pause as William buttoned the yellow shirt, and then proceeded with his strange habit of removing the laces from his shoes and then putting them back on.

**** “Could I ask you something?” 

**** “Always,” he replied, pulling on his socks.

**** “Do I still work for you?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, even though the question had been at the edge of his mind for days. “I’m still happy to do things for you, but am I still under your employ? With… this?” He gestured vaguely to the bed, to the deck of cards on the table, to William, to the room in general.

**** “What would you prefer?” He tied the laces on his left shoe.

**** “Oh. Well.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Red wasn’t sure what answer he had expected, but that certainly wasn’t it. “I’m… not entirely sure. I think being _with_ you and working _for_ you is… strange. This is new to me. I mean, not…being with someone. I’ve had girlfriends, but…not with a man. Not an employer. I mean, obviously.” He hesitated, then gave a small, frustrated sigh. “Sorry. I’m not that good at this.”

**** “This, whatever it is, is rare. I doubt anybody is experienced enough to be good at it.” 

**** Red scoffed, smiling again. “You are.”

****William smiled. “Thank you.” He paused and pulled on his right shoe, carefully tying the lace into a bow. “I am experienced enough to be concerned for you.”

“What do you mean?”

**** “Remember when I told you that one does not make advances on one’s employees?”

**** “Well, yes?”

**** “In making advances on you, I may have put you in a position where you felt you needed to reciprocate, lest you find yourself without a job.” 

**** Red looked about to argue, then stopped. “Well. That makes sense, I guess. I mean, in general.

“Which is why I wanted you to think about it, that first night. I should have… been clearer, that I didn’t expect anything from you.”

“What, not anything?” Red grinned, unsure of what to say, and attempting to lighten William’s seriousness.

He smiled, walking over to Red, sitting beside him on the bed. He placed a hand on Red’s knee, squeezing it as he spoke. “All I expect is to know you are spending time with me because you want to, not because you are afraid you will be back on the streets if you refuse me.”

**** “I am,” Red murmured, his hands encircling William’s wrists. “The first part. I mean. The ‘wanting to spend time with you’ part.”

He smiled, rubbing the underside of Red’s wrists. “Then, to answer your question, I don’t think you’ve worked for me for a little while.” He paused, pulling a hand free to gesture at his new trunk. “I will be honest. I will still ask for your help on occasion. But you are welcome to ask anything you like of me in return. But it will be out of good will, not obligation.”

“I’d love that.”

“Excellent,” he said, moving to give Red another firm kiss. Red pulled his head towards him, forcing their faces as close together as he could manage. They sat entwined like that until the knock at the door forced them to separate much sooner than either of them would have liked.


	6. Interlude

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been eight years since my last confession.”

“I am glad that you have come back to the Lord after such a long time.”

“I accuse myself of a great many sins. But there is one sin in particular that is on my conscience, and led me to return after so long. I have become interested in one of my employees to an inappropriate degree, more than is proper of a gentleman.”

“Many of us are guilty of that sin, my son. It can be a form of greed, where the pursuit of things in the mortal realm is done without regard for the eternal. Is that why you have come today?”

“Not precisely. I fear my… greed… will cause a scandal. It could ruin me.”

“You are speaking of material things. Think not what effect your sins will have on you in this world, but on your soul in the kingdom of heaven.”

“My soul may be unsalvageable at this point.”

“Nobody who seeks penance is beyond heaven. Have you acted on this desire?” 

“Yes, though not to the point of committing the sin of adultery. However, I worry that my infatuation is excessive, even given the circumstances.”

“It sounds as though you are behaving as appropriately as can be expected. As greed is the enemy of charity, remember to give alms to the poor, especially in times such as these. Pray for guidance, make an effort to attend service and confession more often, and, above all, continue live in chastity until you have been joined in the sacrament of marriage.”

“I will.”

“Now, say the act of contrition, if you remember it.” 

“O God, my God, I repent of all my sins with all my heart. I am heartily sorry not because of Thy just punishments, but above all because they offend Thee. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend. Amen.”

“Our Lord Jesus Christ absolve you; and I, by His authority I absolve you from every incurred excommunication and interdict, so as much as I can, and your needs require. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“You remember the act of contrition well, after so many years.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to confess the sin for which I am so ashamed. Though there was one thing I forgot to mention.”

“Please tell it.”

“I confessed my secrets to a heretical priest, and I plan to kill him very, very shortly. Do you suppose the Lord would forgive me that, too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be uploaded on the 10th of June. 
> 
> However, we might skip or delay July's update due to a planned 3 week vacation that will severely impact editing time.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be regular but far apart: we'll post a new chapter on the first weekend of every month, with a one page interlude posted halfway in between.
> 
> To give an idea of length, pre-editing, the complete whole story is 65,000 words spanning 13 chapters (and 14 interludes). 
> 
> Image credits:  
> Chapter beginning images are creative commons, see below the image for source.  
> Section dividers by [www.vecteezy.com](https://www.vecteezy.com)


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